


For the Emperor

by pazzz



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Daedra shenanigans, M/M, MARTIN LIVES!!, Martin gets dropped into another time and place and has to fight another big bad, kinda sorta reincarnation AU? not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24604804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pazzz/pseuds/pazzz
Summary: The oblivion crisis is a distant memory in the minds of most alive in Tamriel, but not to one Daedra who wasn't always a Daedra...The Dragonborn appeared seemingly out of thin air, in the chaos that was the return of the World Eater at Helgen, wearing a face that was once well known... a familiar face, and an even more familiar name he cannot remember...
Comments: 54
Kudos: 48





	1. Awake, from afar

The memories stung like a half-healed scab, pulling and sending jolts of sharp pain through his mind - where sheogorath and the hero met and the years became a slurry of oblivion and mourning. 

The cloud of butterflies swirled around the red glow of magma and blood, at the feet of the great stone dragon where his love once stood. The light from the shattered amulet had blinded him like the sun in the eyes of a man too close to the heavens, his wax wings melting as the gates of oblivion slammed shut. 

In his mind, donning the mantle was the means to accomplish what he couldn’t before… what he wanted since that day...  
...To do justice to an innocent soul. 

It had taken more time than he could have ever planned for, years upon years piling on top of one another as he dug further down to the answer he wanted… making deals, bending the truth of what he had known for so long…  
Finally.  
Finally.  
The bittersweet accomplishment, a jewel on his crown. 

There would be no fate today, no coincidence. 

The grey forests around Helgen were crisp with a chilly morning dew, his mortal disguise putting on the show of shivering as the frigid Skyrim wind cloaked his body.

Finally. 

He wanted to apologize for what had happened and what would and could happen, his throat burning with words unsaid. 

It would be dangerous, it would be a break in the peace he had been promised for his love in Aetherius, but still… it was done. There would be curious eyes trying to spot the daedric prince in the wake of his absence, but he had a story for it. He always did. It was a miracle still he had pulled it off...

He watched the cart go by, the Imperial soldiers marching and trotting on their horses beside it. One man muzzled like a dog, the others slouched are his side, it was a sight that filled his mind, the mind that was more mortal than mantle, with a fear of letting go of the reigns… he had done his part. 

He was back. He was back. 

Sitting before the man with his mouth silenced, the Stormcloak, the familiar face finally turned slowly to the grey sky, hair falling in his eyes as he blinked awake.  
Grey eyes, turned up toward grey clouds…  
Hair the color of rich earth, or perhaps the caramelized sugar of a sweetroll.  
Fear, confusion, worry…. 

“Hey you, you’re finally awake…”

The tear on the prince’s cheek was startlingly warm, a sensation he hadn’t felt in too long.  
Good luck, Dragonborn.


	2. Forgotten Name, Forgotten Man

He felt as though he was rocking back into consciousness, his vision blurry and his head pounding something awful. He registered the sound of a voice in his ears, welcoming him back to the mortal realm, and after a few vigorous blinks he could see the blonde man before him. The air was cold and smelled of hearthfire smoke and trees, and his whole body shivered almost painfully. 

What was he wearing, a cloth sack like the ones they sold potatoes in? Divines preserve him, it itched something awful… but it was somehow a familiar feeling, something he was accustomed too. Where was he? What in Oblivion was going on?   
“You were trying to cross the border,right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there..” The blonde man across from him said, his face full of a sad sort of pride.   
He opened his mouth to respond, but found the words didn’t come forth, his throat paralized with the sudden realization of what was happening to him, of where he was…

“Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was  
nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen  
that horse and been half way to Hammerfell. You there.” Their eyes met and he felt the prickle of tears welling up. “You and me, we shouldn’t be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants…”   
“We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.” 

The cart rocked dangerously, and he nearly flew from his seat. “Shut up back there!” The guard at the head of their precarious transportation called back, sounding irritated.  
The prisoner’s eyes, fogged with fear and the mist of tears, lingered on the man beside him.   
Gagged and slouched over, draped in furs and haloed with the pride of a man sure of himself and his actions, the corners of his mouth folded down into a frown. The others in the cart talked about him, but there was little to be truly noted apart from the electric pulse that seemed to linger in the air around him.   
Distrust boiled in his core. 

The walls of a settlement, achingly familiar but impossibly alien, appeared before them with its stone and thatch touching the grey sky as it opened up to cold white sunlight. Horses, voices, the sound of wind in the evergreens… 

The wheels rattled over the cobblestones, shaking the passengers back and forth as the prying eyes of the settlement’s inhabitants wandered over them, varying degrees of disgust and sympathy radiating off them. It was overwhelming, the sounds of horses braying and the voices swirling around his head like insects over a stagnant pond. 

“Why are they stopping?” The thief cried, heart beating faster than it ever had.   
“Why do you think? End of the line.” 

“NO! You can’t do this!! This is a mistake!!” He  
Wanted to reach out and grab the fellow prisoner, keep him close and alive but there was no stopping him. He ran, darting through the town square past the horses and up the cobblestone path.   
He closed his eyes when the legionnaire yelled “Archers!!” 

“Anyone else feel like running?” His heart ached, and he couldn’t bear to look up. It hit him in that moment what was truly happening, and in the haze of confusion he realized that while his memories were a dark void, there wouldn’t be much else as he was ushered to the headsman’s axe. 

The line pushed forward and his feet moved without his input. He barely noticed himself moving forward to stand before a legion soldier with a list in his hands. 

“Who are you?” He asked, a frown etched onto his wind-chapped face. 

“I’m…” He blinked, his mouth dry. If he thought to hard the answer seemed to scurry away, but his mouth moved anyway. “Martin.” 

“Martin what?”   
“Just…. Martin.”


	3. Dovah's Breath

It didn’t matter that his name wasn’t on the list.   
“Forget the List. He goes to the block…” 

“You imperial bastards!” One voice cried.   
“Justice!!” Another echoed.

His knees shook as he stood in the small crowd, and he felt as though he might faint in the harsh heat of the sun against stone. Despite the sweat on his brow, the headsman’s block was frigid as coldharbour.   
Martin turned his head to more comfortably recline, though he imagined it wouldn’t matter. His knees ached after only a moment beneath the headsman’s axe. 

The sound was far off, a cry like a bird perhaps? Far away, and barely out of the ordinary.   
The edge of the axe gleamed mockingly. 

There it was again, quickly pointed out by the imperial soldiers all around him… a roar in the skies shaking with ancient fury, like something he had seen before.   
...a familiar sound that made his already racing heart speed like a horse fleeing from a burning barn…

“What in Oblivion is THAT?!” General Tullius cried, the sternness from his speech to Ulfric Stormcloak wavering as the sky darkened. 

The dragon was onyx black, shining as if made out of volcanic ash with red eyes smouldering out of the coal-dusted scales of its face. Its horns coiled like snakes solidified into worship, jagged points pointing towards the heavens as its stare locked on the town below. 

It opened its maw, and the air itself seemed to grind against his skin like stone, his body paralyzed and his ears aching as the clouds darkened and he felt heat accumulating in the town square. Flames, fiery stone from the sky...he couldn’t breathe let alone cry out. With his hands bound and his knees bent, who would respond to his cries anyway? 

“You...hurry!! The gods won’t give us another chance!” The blonde nord loomed over Martin’s head, yelling as red trickled down from his ears, and before the thought had even made its journey through his mind they were both on their feet, pushing through the smoke and cries of burning Helgen. 

But Martin didn’t stay. 

The tower opened up for the dragon's jaws like the stone was eggshell, shattering into pieces and scattering. Martin leapt from the wounded structure and didn’t stop, even as the splinters of the wooden wreckage dug into his feet. He fleetingly felt like a fool, having ran from help, but a familiar voice guided him - Hadvar, or so someone had called him from the other side of a smouldering ruin, stood with his sword drawn as if he himself was prepared to take down the beast with only his determination. He was young and wide-eyed, but worn and withered all at one, his mouth frozen into a frown beneath his grey eyes. “Still alive, prisoner? Stay close to me if you want to stay that way.” 

And so he did.


	4. Riverwood

Following Hadvar, escaping through the tunnels… it was all a blur to Martin. He fell to his knees as he emerged into the sun and the dragon flew overhead, just a dark blot on the grey Tamrielic sky. Hadvar had called out to him, urging him to stay down and not move, and had thrown his arm out behind him toward his new companion. Martin didn’t hesitate to reach out in turn, grabbing his rough hand and squeezing like a child seeing a healer for an injury. 

There was a flicker of embarrassment as he wondered what this relative stranger would think, but Hadvar thought of little else besides the sweat on his back and the sound of the great beast slinking away into the mountains. “There he goes…” He breathed out, sounding exhausted.  
Martin stood slowly, now robed in armor they had recovered from the barracks as they passed through, looking too much like the imperial soldier’s doppelganger. It felt near impossible to find his voice, but when he did it was nothing more than a soft question. “What do we do now?” 

Hadvar gave a gentle glance back and released Martin’s hand, watching the sky intently. 

“My uncle lives in a town nearby, Riverwood. He’ll help us, I know he will.” He sighed, breathing in the mountain air to still the panic in his chest that lay coiled like a fearful rabbit in its burrow, watching the world outside like the next breath could be its last. “You are welcome to follow, but it may be safer if we part ways.” 

Martin’s eyes widened. He knew nothing of Skyrim, and while there was some familiarity to places he had been before, memories like ink paintings in his mind's eye, he wouldn’t last long on his own...or so he feared.  
He nodded, and when Hadvar began his descent into the grey forest of Skyrim’s heart he followed close behind. He didn’t miss a step, fearful that the iron sword he now carried wouldn’t be enough. There were so many things he could encounter! Trolls, sabercats… bandits? Bears? Yes, bears for sure. 

The air was cold as the snow up on the mountaintops and the wind blew over the peaks, and he could feel his cheeks getting red and chapped as they made their way along the river. He had seen many places like this, but the memories of them were foggy. He simply couldn’t pull them to the surface, and the more he tried the harder such a task was. Hadvar was a man of few words, offering some insight into things they passed and dispatching of some wolves as he walked ahead a bit. He could see the confusion in Martin’s eyes, and Martin could feel the apprehension in his. In truth there was something about the prisoner, something about the way he walked and the way his eyes roamed about owlishly, that made him sad for the man.  
“Don’t worry, we’re almost there.” Martin smiled at this. 

Riverwood yanked on his heart and mind like an eager child, the memory leaning against the stained glass of his perception.  
The smell of fire and horses, the sound of clanking blacksmith’s hammers and voices…

“A dragon! I saw a dragon!” An old woman yelled from her porch, much to her son’s dismay. 

“Hadvar!!” Alvor yelled, waving at his nephew from the porch. He was a stocky man, tall and resolute in his stance which paired with his soot-stained cheeks to create the visage of a man who looked more like a mountain transfigured into a mortal body. He embraced Hadvar like a son, dropping all work he was doing at the forge.  
His eyes then met the strangers. 

“He’s a friend…” Hadvar was quick to offer. “I wouldn’t be here without him.” 

Heat rose to Martin’s cheeks. That was far from true, but it was flattering.  
Alvor seemed to care little, and was most happy to see Hadvar alive.. Especially after the truth of the great beast that had flown into the mountains was muttering from his nephew’s lips to meet his ears. He didn’t believe it, not fully, at first but… Hadvar was convincing. 

“Any friend of Hadvar’s is a friend of mine!” They were ushered in, Alvor wanting to get more information from them inside and away from curious neighbors. 

Martin barely heard Hadvar’s voice as he began relaying the story to his aunt and uncle. No, instead his stomach twisted painfully at the sight of food, and once he had the soft smile of permission from Alvor and his wife to eat it was all he could think about… that and the knowledge that he couldn’t stay.  
They offered him a bed, safety and food, and he gladly accepted the warm meal, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had to be gone before even worse threats followed him to their doorstep. Hadvar’s niece was a young girl, no more than ten years old, and he couldn’t let a dragon or dremora follow him to her bedside. 

He dipped his bread in broth to slow his pace, but ultimately shoved the whole loaf down his gullet. Alvor talked about the Jarl needing to be told at once, and how defenseless Riverwood was. The cheese placed before him was gone even faster than the bread. Hadvar mentioned fleetingly how important it was for him to meet up with his fellow legion soldier, their work being more important than ever before if the dragons were back.  
Martin realized then he liked grilled leeks, but not carrots. No, no oh no. 

On one hand it was all so thrilling, as he felt more alive than he had in ages.  
On the other, it was saddening knowing that once the sun set, he would likely not see the people of Riverwood and their hospitality for a good long time. 

But he had to go, even if he didn’t know where.


	5. Familar Rose in a Foreign Bush

The Bannered Mare’s fire creeped deep into Martin’s joints, the warmth and safety of the Inn making his eyelids heavy. The walk had been quiet, the only impasses being the howls of wolves over the rocky hills, but in the end the warm orange light of the setting sun led him forward. The guards hadn’t wanted to play host to guests it seemed, but ultimately let the poor man in, as his rambling tale of a dragon had clearly thrown them for a loop. 

He didn’t have much in the way of septims, apart from the small amount Alvor had been so gracious to give him. He was too kind, that old blacksmith. He would have to repay him. 

“You look out of place, friend.” A soft, inquisitive voice met his ears from behind, making him turn quickly see who it was standing just over his shoulder. The man was tall, but not overwhelmingly so, and he was dressed in achingly familiar black priest’s robes. Where had he seen something like that? 

“I’m simply traveling, passing through…” This wasn’t entirely a lie, though it gave the false pretense that Martin knew where he was walking. “I see! By your lonesome?” The man smiled, his handsome face beaming with a boyish excitement.  
“Unfortunately, yes.” Martin said, voice shaking. 

“Well that’s not fun or safe, not at all! Mind if I sit?” He pointed to the empty spot at the fire near Martin’s feet. “Yes, sure…” He couldn’t think of a reason to say no, and he feared seeming rude. This man had an energy that set his heart abuzz as if it were now full of flying insects - unpleasant in how it made his hands shake, but pleasant in the way his smile pulled upwards. 

The man held his hand out for an introduction. “Sam Guevenne!” 

“Martin.” He took his warm hand, and shook it politely.  
“It’s a pleasure.” 

“Can I offer you a drink, my friend? Something a bit stronger than some honey mead?” Sam offered, pointing a thumb at the Inn’s counter where Hulda stood.  
“Ah, no thank you. I prefer to keep my wits about me.” Martin laughed.  
“What are you a priest? Take a vow of no merrymaking to stay a head above the common rabble? ”  
Martin’s smile fell a bit, but if Sam noticed he didn’t react. 

“No, just… If either of us were to be a priest I would think it would be you given how you’re dressed.” He nodded at Sam’s robes, taking a quick swig of his drink to preoccupy his hands. “Besides, it sounds like you’re the one with a grudge to live with.” 

The man leaned in, hands to his mouth as if he were going to let the traveler in on a secret that might change his life forever. “I wear this for the social benefits. I get into places I ought not to faster when people think I'm a holy man.” 

Martin couldn’t contain a laugh. “And that works for you?”  
“Some of the time. If the guards are lazy enough. Or if they haven’t seen any action in a long while…” 

The two laughed, and Martin couldn’t help feeling a familiarity he couldn’t describe, the feeling of walking in his own footsteps. He had seen this man before, broke bread and dined and shared thoughts with him like an old friend. 

“Are you certain you don’t want anything more than that? You won’t regret it.”  
“Yes, but thank you. I appreciate the generosity, it isn’t something one gets from a stranger.” 

“Well, then perhaps I can give you another gift instead…” Sam reached for his pocket and dug around a bit. 

“That is quite alright…”  
“No, please! I insist, I have many gifts to give. Here…” He stood to his full height and arched his back, stretching. There was a strangeness to his movements, like he was becoming reacquainted with his tendons and ligaments. 

He extended his hand in a single smooth motion, movements like the slow roll of a wave on a warm Summerset beach, and held out a small jeweled object that glittered in the firelight. The crystalline petals were the color of blushing cheeks, blood flowing beneath the skin, and the leaves were so lifelike it made his nose itch. “I cannot accept this!” Martin gasped. 

“Please, it is simply a gift from one old friend to another.” Sam’s voice was like the honey in the mead; warm and made his knees weak. Martin found him extending his hand and accepting it, the buzz exploding as his fingertips met the thorns of the rose.  
“Besides, it was always yours to begin with…” Sam laughed. 

“You’re traveling, and the wilderness seems vast. Do not worry, there is a reason for your walking. I can tell by...looking at you...there are so many who are dying to see your face here again. Protect yourself.” 

“What do you…” He blinked, and the Inn was suddenly one false priest emptier…  
And Martin was alone again.  
And he missed Sam Guevenne.


	6. Shivering Isles

“Molag and Mehrunes tried to tear reality apart for conquest, and I am still more impressed and afraid by what you have done here…” 

The mortal disguise fell away, crimson markings raising up off his skin and his armor shining like the shell of a beetle. 

Sanguine’s steps were silent apart from the faint sound of frozen dew crunching beneath him, steam rolling off of his horns as the cold mist met his warm flesh. He had never seen this plane of oblivion so desolate, so grey. It was bone-deep, and even he felt the coils of something...distinctly mortal...wrapping around his heart.  
Shivering Isles indeed… 

Sheogorath sat where he expected him to be, his stiff and his eyes far off. 

“Hmm?” He raised his gaze to his fellow prince, but didn’t see him. He was lost in thought.  
“You’ve been busy I see. And don’t you dare tell me you do not know what I mean.”  
“Of course it would be you.” Sheogorath sighed. 

His hair was like starlight, his robes the same color as the foggy purple sky above them. Some days one could fool themselves into seeing the mask Jyggalag wore, the human man with feline eyes, as the once-mortal was surprisingly adept at playing their role, but other days it was apparent… the pointed ears, the pointed nose, the lithe frame…  
This was one of those days. His grey hair was strangely dark, and fell over his shoulders and into his face in a loose mess. 

“You crazy fool!”  
It was nearly impossible to read his face. There was confusion, admiration, fear and jubilation all at once, etched into the lines of his glittering arachnid eyes.  
“It has been so long since I even gave a passing thought to the wonderful Last Septim Heir. I almost forgot what his rosy face looked like.”  
“So you know.”

Sanguine frowned. “I saw him with my own eyes. Of Course I know. How in Oblivion did you pull it off? I cannot believe you..”  
“Brother…”

"You sit here in your little vacation spot in near total silence since the Greymarch and then when you finally poke your head up you shock me with this. I had no idea you were so eager to outdo the armored idiot who came before you.”  
“I do not think…”  
“Do not… do not try it. How did you do it? How did you yank that poor idiot out of Aetherius?” There was something bitingly stern about his words that caught Sheogorath off guard. He expected that if anyone were to care about what he did, it wouldn’t be the prince of debauchery frowning at him like a disappointed parent.  
Sanguine crossed his arms, looming over Sheogorath’s hunched frame. 

“All this time, all that effort, I cannot even begin to think what one would have to do, I can’t even wrap my mind around the idea and I know more that the average-”  
“He wasn’t there.”

“The will of those high and mighty star-fuckers, Akatosh and his plans that he… what?”  
“He was not there. In Aetherius, I mean.”  
“Sovngarde then? What, was the bastard’s mother a nord?” 

“No.” 

Sanguine blinked incredulously. “You’re kidding. Liar.”  
“Why would I lie?” Suddenly, and painfully, his past mortality shone through.  
Sanguine snorted. “You tell me, Sheogorath. Where was he?”

He sat silently for too, long, his eyes distant as he was choosing his words carefully. 

“Caesitas, talk to me.” It was hard forcing his mortal name from the back of the old daedra’s memory after centuries, crossing the river on stony pillars of trust. It was a tool the mortal mind gave. 

“Where was he?”  
“I had a feeling...I had gone there many times myself…” 

Sanguine’s horned brow furrowed and he wordlessly urged him to continue. 

“Dealing with Mehrunes Dagon was the equivalent of closing the biggest Oblivion gate imaginable. He had to go to the other side to close the doors. It wasn’t possible for him to get back.” 

“Oblivion…”  
“Yes. Deadlands. He was further in than I have ever gone. Probably further than any mortal, honestly.” 

“Did Mehrunes...know? Does he know?”  
Sheogorath… Caesitas... shook his head. “Martin knew better…”  
“He has no memory of anything, or who he even is.”  
“Perhaps finally he will get the peace he deserves.”  
“You know that only puts him at a disadvantage! You cannot think this is truly the smart way…”  
“It was not intentional! Why would I be so cruel?”  
“I have seen more than my fair share of cruelty from my daedric siblings.” 

“I am not them! And I am not Him!” Caesitas stood too fast for a mortal eye to see. Rage flashed in his feline eyes. 

“You know what is going to happen if anyone finds out what you have done, don’t you? I want to clap and applaud and weep at your feet, for I have wanted him back so badly, but I cannot! I am too afraid for him! Perhaps the affection is not the same as yours but do not forget I care for him too, fool. The other’s push aside the mortal experience but you know I never…”

“I do not need a lecture. I believe you.” He finally said, placing a hand on Sanguine’s shoulder. There was exasperation, but it was like steam from an automation - brief, scorching , and necessary. 

“Please, if trust cannot be extended to me at least keep your distance.”

Sanguine sighed. 

“I hope you know what you have done...what you are doing.” 

In truth he was running, chasing, blindly thrashing at the ebb and flow of time and prophecy.


	7. The Western Watchtower

Martin stood in the soft dew of morning, watching the birds flitter and swoop about the quiet wind district. The coolness stung at his nose and was heavy in his lungs, and he sat on a stone for a minute to watch the wisps of clouds drag across the blue of the sky. 

There was a comfortable emptiness here, in this moment, before the bustle and hustle of the day began in earnest. He could smell the petals of the great tree at the city’s heart, and the smell of a cold rain in the dark hours lingering in the soil. There was smoke too, rising up from houses and hovels as their inhabitants woke and went about their daily business,  
It was a comfortable sort of loneliness, not one that set in as a result of the absence of people but rather fostered by many people living in close proximity wanting their quiet and peace. 

He felt his heart sink at the reality of the dragon he had seen, had almost lost his life too, lingering in the cold mountains while these people tried their best to just...be.  
The guilt and worry was acrid in his throat. 

It made his heart race, the thought of wings spreading and fire erupting from parting jaws...words of power.  
He didn’t know why. His shoulder blades ached, his eyes watered. 

If he thought on it too hard, he could hear a voice...calling his name far away.  
“MARTIN! Don’t DO this…” He didn’t recognize the voice. He wanted to. 

He considered climbing the steps to Dragonsreach. He really did…

It all felt like a bad dream, a rot in his brain he couldn’t clean away. Hadvar’s disappointment was already in his blood, pushed forward by his anxious heart. 

He turned, Climbed, and then ran again. And again. And again. 

“I’m leaving these people to their fate…” 

It wasn’t until he collided head on with one of the Greymanes that he realized the panic had moved from within his body to outside his body. 

“DRAGON!!” Someone yelled, as the guards moved in a single disorganized band through the crowd to the front gate, a dunmer woman leading them. “THEY’RE GOING TO FIGHT A DRAGON?”  
“There is no dragon you icebrain!” “Of course there is, the rumors are too many to discredit!”  
“That means nothing!”  
“Move! Out of the way!” 

Martin’s feet were moving before he could think of where he was going or what he would say.  
His fingers brushed lightly on the armor of a particularly scared-looking guard, his eyes wide with concern and fear. “Excuse me…. I’m so sorry but… What is happening? A Dragon?”  
The man’s lip quivered. “It came out from the mountains, they say. They’re supposed to be dead but the creature is attacking a watchtower...I didn’t think it true until Irileth showed her worry. Not an easy thing to do…” 

Divines, what had he done. 

The guards passed the gate, weapons on their person and their faces stony. Martin considered keeping beside the talkative guard, but decided rather to make distance. He had no weapons, no defense...and if this was the dragon that had destroyed Helgen…

They stood no chance. 

The flames coming off of the Watchtower were as bright as they would have been in the dark of night, their glow making every muscle in Martin’s body feel as if it were made of stone.  
Irileth tried her damndest to give a rousing speech, urging them to be “true nords” and protect their home, but Martin felt only hollow fear in his heart and theirs. 

The morning was no longer cool and placid, but rather blistering and painful. 

“You, straggler. Are you going to help us or are you here to gawk and gelt killed?” Irileth’s voice shook Martin from his confusion. 

“You all… you don’t have any clue what this creature can do to you!” Martin cried the second her crimson eyes met his.  
“You need to move everyone.”  
“Impossible.” 

"There will be no use for this place once you get burned away to the next realm, you need to run!”  
He opened his mouth, some fiery plea to add to the list, when Irileth’s eyes went wide. 

“Its coming back!!” 

The roar seemed to shake and settle in Martin’s spine. 

“Oh No.”


	8. Sky Above

Martin watched as the dark form descended from the clouds,sunlight shining off of green scales as the sound of great leathery wings beating the wind mixed with the sound of terrified people below. 

The guards readied their bows, hands shaking as Irileth tried her damndest to lift their spirits for battle. Her voice was too quickly drowned out by the voice of the descending beast…

He felt heat on his face before anything else. Then icy wind, like winter wind from the crest of a mountain. The words were deep, rumbling in his chest… the voice of the dragon above, taunting him and the guards. They were weak creatures, nothing compared to grandeur of the old sovereigns. 

Martin had no weapons, no sword of even a dagger, but he had to do something. 

Arrows pierced the creature’s side and he wailed, leathery wings pulsing as he fought the onslaught and the wind.  
What was he going to do?  
What was there? 

The great beast’s feet met the grass below, landing to recover and laugh at the inconvenience. Eyes like dark carnelians met Martin’s. 

For a moment there was stillness between them, and Martin felt watched like he never had before.  
The laugh tumbled like thunder from the ancient creature. 

“Skuldafin will be your doom…” The words were barely something he could make out, and they rattled free from the dragon's maw like words weren't supposed to.  
The guards circled in, and he swung his great head to snap his jaws in their direction, teeth piercing armor.  
Martin ran forward, lunging for a called blade in the grass, and then drew in a deep breath. 

He knew he had to keep the beast on the ground, or there was no winning this battle. The sky was its domain, and if it made it up there again they wouldn’t make it bake to Whiterun.  
The blade met the sinew and scales of the dragon's wing, and the beast pulled its damaged limbs back as he attacked. Again and again he hit, running around the back of the beast while the guards circled to avoid its teeth and riddle the hide with arrows. 

The ridges of spines on the dragon’s back cut into Martin’s knees as he climbed over his neck, bare feet barely able to hold onto the writhing muscles and thrashing flesh. He doesn’t want to do what he knows he must, and there’s even something within him humming a sad song of shattering kinship.  
Like an old friend… or perhaps a sibling he didn’t know. 

The sword, iron and wobbling in his weak hands, glittered in the sun.  
He raised it over his head, and closed his eyes as he brought it down.  
The dragon fought it, and Martin’s mind felt like a whisp in the wind until he found himself lying in the grass beside the wailing creature, blood on his face and hands.  
Oh gods, what had he DONE. 

The dragon thrashed, spilling ichor over the grass and wildflowers, before falling over to its final rest. 

The air itself danced and the orange glow at first seemed to be a trick of the light, hot and swirling like flames. Martin instinctively held his breath, but this did nothing as the warmth and light settled into his bones. His vision dimmed. Heat pulsed in his muscles and for a moment, as he looked up, he swore he could see Aetherius.


	9. Voices from the Past

Martin walked alone through the grass beyond the walls of Whiterun, moving simply where his feet carried him. The guards had spoken to him once the scene had settled, but he hadn’t waited to listen… their words felt heavy on his shoulders. Dragonborn… where had he heard this before? His memory pulled apart like the overgrown vines on a distant place he once called home. A priory. 

His feet ached. He was more tired than he had been in a long time, or what his garbled memory allowed him to see past. The sky was bright above him now, the sun warm on his cheeks as if he would look upwards again… as if he would see it again.  
“You are… dragonborn!” The voice rang like a bell in his mind... his disjointed thoughts. 

He felt scattered. Not broken, but simply everywhere all at once. 

The walls of the city drew nearer and nearer. He could hear horses and distant chatter. He could even make out the tent of the Khajit caravan.  
It wasn’t something he saw that made him freeze on the spot, No. It was the sensation of a frigid jolt along his spin, a warning of something barreling towards him out of nowhere. 

The sky opened its mouth, and in one great chorus the voices rang out to him. 

“DO-VAH-KIIN!”  
The thunderclap rattled his bones. 

Martin fell to his knees, hot tears welling up in his eyes. The memory didn’t well up like bubbles in a frozen lake - they tore themselves up from the mud and the sludge and into his heart with knife-like pain.  
He walked up the stone steps to the Cloud Ruler temple, the monk announcing him as the salve to the burn that was their failure to protect the emperor…

“Hail Dragonborn! Hail Martin Septim! Hail!” 

He had tried to be that savior they wanted.  
“I will do my best but… this is all new to me…” 

Martin’s hand flew to his mouth as he wept. What had happened? Why was he here? 

“I thought perhaps they would leave you be. I am sorry.” The achingly familiar voice broke him out of his spiral, and when he turned to look over his shoulder it was as if his heart stopped beating. 

The angular face, the dark locks and pointed ears...the kind green eyes.  
They would erect a statue of him outside Bruma, but it would never match. He had always wished they hadn’t, since Martin never got to see it.. 

“Hello, Martin. Long time no see.”


	10. Cloud of Memory

The Bosmer knelt before Martin, cupping his face in one hand.  
He didn’t recoil. 

“Do you remember me?”  
Martin opened his mouth a few times but didn’t answer, not directly. “You...you know me?” 

The Bosmer smiled. “Yes, I most definitely do.Search for me, I’m in there.” He touched a delicate finger to Martin’s forehead. Martin simply blinked, wide-eyed. 

Caesitas had dreaded this moment, not because of any lack of desire to see Martin - absolutely not- but rather the fact he was at a loss on what he could do to help him remember. He was grasping at straws and hoping, just hoping, that perhaps they would get lucky. 

“My name is Caesitas. And yours is Martin, yes?”  
Martin’s stormy eyes widened. 

His mind's eye was filled with the sight of clouds, snow falling over his place as he stared up at the sky over the temple. “You’re doing all you can, Martin. You’re doing more than one man could ever be expected to. You’re going up against the daedra, and I for one have nothing but faith…”  
Martin had laughed, and turned to face the owner of the voice behind him… a bosmer wearing the armor of a Kvatch guard. “Faith? In the divine’s benevolence?”  
Where had divine benevolence gotten them?  
“In you.” 

They had met in the crisis that had been Kvatch, he could hear the voices swirling in his memory… the fear. The panic. The sounds of blades on blades and fire searing flesh…  
He could recall the way the smoke burned his nose and the blood stained his hands as they hid in the church…

Martin’s eyes filled with tears. “Caesitas?”  
“I’m here now.” 

What had been a fog was now a tornado, a storm he couldn't stand in. He wasn’t one self in his mind's eye but rather fragments that came together as if magnetic. Gold armor, the smell of brimstone and wine, the pain of white-hot light and the weight of an amulet on his collarbones…

“Caesitas where am I?”  
“You’re in the province of Skyrim. You’re outside the city of Whiterun. It’s been a long journey and you’re here now. You know this, remember it now. You can.” 

The faces of the monks at the priory… the pages of the Xarxes… the towers of the imperial city…

His hands met the soil, his fingers curling into fists. “What year is it?”  
“It's the Fourth Era...201.”

Two hundred Years.  
Two. Hundred. 

“You’re lying to me.”  
“I am not.” Caesitas’ lip trembled. His eyes didn’t waver. He swore he could see them glint yellow-gold in the sun when he looked up to meet them.  
“You have to be.” 

“I wouldn’t. Not to you, Martin.” His voice was soft as a creek through an orchard.  
“This isn’t true... it can’t be. I don’t. I don’t remember how I got here, it's been too long the…”

And there the memory struck, like lightning in his chest.  
Arcs of stone and sulfur, great prongs of flesh and obsidian… Their red glow blinding as he made his way through the dark forests. “The Oblivion Gates. How…” 

Caesitas held out his hands again, offering them rather than taking Martin’s face in them. “I can tell you it all, I can show you how complete the victory was. You did it Martin.”  
There was sadness in his old companion’s voice, like what he had told him was tragic news and not the only thing Martin had ever wanted. 

“The past was the past, and If you wish to see it I can show you, but you’re here now. We have to get you safe, it's not wise to be out here…” 

“After you tell me…” 

“We won. We won, Martin. And I got you out of there.” 

“Hail Dragonborn!” The Blades had chanted for him. “Hail Martin Septim! Hail the Emperor.” He had left them? Alone? With the cultists in full power? How could he? 

“Who sits on the throne now?”  
“It matters not…”  
“Do you take me for a fool, then? In all this time did you decide we were not equals?”  
“You’re not a fool, my dearest.” Martin’s heart skipped a beat. “But I surely am.”  
He held out his hand and made himself firm on his feet. 

“You trusted me in Kvatch, when you didn’t know me. You took the world on your shoulders. Now let me wear the weight for now. Do you still trust me?” 

Part of Martin wanted to say no. He was afraid. His mind was a patchwork of fractal shapes and colors. Sweat gathered on his brow. He had killed a dragon. 

More of him wanted to say yes. And he did.  
He loved the man. He loved the nameless one, the Hero. The Champion. His best friend. His love. 

He took Caesitas’ hand, and in a moment no longer than a blink the pair were swept up by a purple iridescent cloud. Butterflies swirled in his hair and around them both in a whirlwind, and when he closed his eyes he fell asleep for the first time in earnest since waking up on the cart.


	11. One Daedra Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angsty, but happy in the end I promise!! Sorry for another long break!!

When Martin opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see the underside of a thatch roof above him, and feel the warmth of a deer hide blanket over him. He lay still for a moment, his heart slow and his body relaxed. When his voice returned to him, he could feel the presence of another beside him. “Where are we?”

“An Inn called Dead Man’s Drink, in the town of Falkreath. Province of Skyrim…” 

“We were outside of Whiterun, weren’t we?”  
“We were, Falkreath is the nearest hold city and is considerably smaller. We are safer here.” 

“For now.”  
Caesitas laughed.  
“I marched you across Cyrodiil with the Mythic Dawn up our asses, remember? I have experience in this area.” 

Martin laughed, too. He remembered it in flashes, but beyond that it was more of a feeling in his chest… the familiarity of walking this path before, at least somewhat. 

Caesitas stood from his seat across the room, his chair squealing in the stone floor. One hand extended to support Martin’s neck as he sat up on his elbows, while the other held a wood bowl of some sort of stew. It smelled heavy and sweet like herbs and mutton. “Feeling strong enough to eat? There’s bread too.” 

“I shall try.” As Martin Septim always did.  
The stew was warm in his stomach, and was a welcome feeling. By the divines, Skyrim was cold. The bread was more substantive, making him feel somewhat stronger already. 

“Gods, I just killed a dragon.” He finally said, disbelieving his own experience. “You did. It was an amazing feat in all truth.”  
“And I am in Skyrim, not Cyrodiil.”  
“Also Correct, though It was entirely by chance.” Caesitas seemed less sure about this, but Martin didn’t mention it.  
“And it has been roughly 200 years since the oblivion crisis.”  
Caesitas nodded. “You were lost in the Deadlands. And now you are here, safe and in the mortal realm again.”

“How did I get out.”  
The bosmer’s lip twitched a bit. “I went and retrieved you from the pit you were locked in. I had to find you, locate your specific location, and then complete the task. That is why it took so long.” There was a sadness in his voice, not like regret… but rather disappointment. 

Martin swung his legs off the bed and placed the stew on a bedside table. “You look like you haven’t aged a day, my love.” The statement was twinged with a question, and Caesitas gripped his hand as if he feared he would vanish.  
“Elves are long lived…”  
“200 years wethers all faces, Caesitas.” 

The elf brought his forehead to Martin’s knees, curling up on himself to obscure his own features. “I fear if I tell you, this will all... vanish.”  
“This?”  
“This… having things be like they were before… I have missed you so long and I simply wish for what we shared then.” 

Martin brushed a hand through his partner’s hair. “I have been in Oblivion for 200 years, love. I do not think I am how I was then, either. Please, what has been done?” 

The air was still and buzzed with anxiety. The pair clung to each other in silence for a long moment before Caesitas lifted his head.  
The breath caught in Martins throat. 

The butterflies, which Martin had written off as a product of his exhaustion, once again fluttered around his companion. Caesitas’ dark hair shimmered into the color of a silver ingot, then faded to near transparency like white starlight. His eyes shone a vivid yellow, pupils like a cats dilating to waning moons in the low light. The aura about him was distinct, inhuman, and electrified with magicka… A Daedra. 

No, not just a daedra… a Prince.  
In his days of Sanguine worship, Martin had seen the shine of daedric influence on the mortal realm, knew well what it felt like to stand in the presence of one.  
No, this couldn't be…. 

“You lied to me? Wore his face to gain my trust?”  
“Absolutely not!” the Daedra cried, anguish melting into his voice. 

“Martin, I AM Caesitas…I simply have not been the Caesitas you knew for a long while… after you… defeated Mehrunes I was alone. I had to do what I could to make use of the position you granted me. The Greymarch…” 

Martin’s eyes widened and welled with tears. He recalled reading about Jyggalag, the cycle of destruction and cataclysm… The two princes in one…

“The Greymarch hasn’t taken place since the final one that I stopped all those years ago. It was ironic, really… After watching you… the aspect of Akatosh… and then standing in the shoes of the Daedra that plagues my dreams as a child.” 

A tear ran down Sheogorath’s… Caesitas’... cheek. 

Martin sat still for a long moment. “How can I know this to be true?”  
Caesitas smiled. 

“I don’t know, really. I…” The silver seemed to fade from his visage. “ Mantling is like being thrown into a river, the undertow constantly pulling at you. But, that walk from Kvatch to Cloud Ruler… It's a stone, and I hold onto it with all my might. Those nights when you would fall asleep hunched over a book or the look of elation once you put down the Xarxes for the last time… what you said to me before…”  
A sob broke through the cracks, and never had anyone seemed so mortal. 

Martin stood, without thinking, and took Caesitas into his arms. 

“What has been done is done. I won’t leave you again, I swear it.”


	12. The Well-walked Path

Caesitas had expressed his desire to stay in Falkreath numerous times, however the pair finally departed after two days of resting up in the inn. Martin had taken to wandering the gloomy little cemetery town and overhead chatter about the voices from the sky, summoning someone called the Dovahkiin to… somewhere in the mountains he figured. It meant little to him until the word was clarified… Dragonborn...and upon hearing the title his heart faltered for a moment, sinking so deep he could only feel it’s cold adrenaline-filled void.  
It was all too hard to dismiss, and when the pair had discussed the topic it was one neither enjoyed. 

“What I did to the dragon, and now what these… monks want…I...”

“You have given so much of your life to monks and prophecy, Martin. You do not have to follow them.” 

“But what I did… something resulting in my time in Oblivion? It was far from the magic they teach in guild halls.”

Caesitas frowned deeply. “No, I'm sure not. Being dragonborn is a divine gift, and was one you had no instruction on. Your father was plagued by visions and dreams, and past members of the Septim bloodline had a number of abilities. I think the answer lies there…You absorbed the beast's energy, it’s very soul. It cannot be a coincidence” 

And so the two began their travels, the ache of familiarity not lost on either of them. Martin relaxed as their pace evened and they made their way through the trees, the sounds of birds and insects and wind in the trees swirling together to greet their ears. It was easy to forget Caesitas was Sheogorath as he readied his sword but kept it low, never letting his guard down and scanning the trees while they made idle conversation - just as he had accompanying Martin across Cyrodiil. Martin would occasionally catch a glimpse of yellow iris when the two met eyes, or would stop to give his legs a rest while the bosmer appeared completely ambivalent to the idea of fatigue in his own form.   
It welled acrid guilt in his stomach, so he pushed it away. 

He was holding this form, walking the pair down the cobblestone path, for Martin’s benefit. 

They camped a few nights, and if he lifted his gaze to the treetops he could imagine it was outside Waynon Priory. “Have you been back since…” Martin began. Caesitas smiled softly. “In all truth, no. I haven’t. It’s ah, full of memories I feel are better rosy in their places. Kvatch is as it was, so I hear, and that horrific statue is still standing.” Caesitas laughed, glad Martin wasn’t aware of the great dragon in the imperial city.   
“The Shivering Isles then?”   
“Yes, mostly. I’ve been fending off devotees as best I can and allowing my interests to be elsewhere. They don’t see any difference between me and my predecessor so i’m grateful I can simply tell them I am on vacation and they leave me be.” 

“It must be strange…”  
“Truly. I…” His eyes grew distant and he seemed lost in the expanse of his thoughts. Martin merely moved himself to sit closer and took his partners frigid hand to help stir their burning rabbit stew. 

Ivarstead was quiet and smelled of livestock.   
It was much drier and more desolate than many of the farming villages Martin had seen in the rich green of Cyrodiil, and the townsfolk regarded the pair with cold curiosity to match the nip in the air.   
“Do you need anything while we are in town?” Caesitas implored, his nose upturned like he was taking in the smells of the place. Martin was no stranger to living with bare essentials, and they had been diligent with their coin in Falkreath. “No, I am quite alright. I fear how my shoes will do on the mountainside but I will make do.” 

“You’re certain?” “Yes, fear not.” Martin laughed. A Daedric prince was doting on him…  
Even after the polite refusal, Caesitas purchased a small satchel of bread and fruit from the Vilemyr Inn. 

Martin caught his breath sitting on a stone by the water, watching the sky darken in from afternoon to evening in his partner’s brief absence.   
“On your way up the 7000 steps, Klimmek?” A voice from the nearby bridge caught his idle attention, like his name whispered on the wind.   
“Not tonight. I’m not ready to make the climb to High Hrothgar. The path’s not safe.”   
“Aren’t the greybeards expecting supplies?”  
“Honestly I’m not certain. I have yet to be allowed into the monastery. Maybe someday…”  
High Hrothgar.... Monastery…

Martin was on his feet, rushing to think of something he could say to the man on the bridge, a balding nord who he assumed to be a courier, or perhaps a trader.   
The man and the Bosmer with whom he was conversing chatted for a while, and the man named Klimmek finally caught Martin approaching in his periphery. 

“You lost, friend?” He asked, kind but firm. Gods, where were his manners.   
“I’m so sorry to intrude, I wasn’t meaning to catch your conversation however… Are you perhaps familiar with the path to High Hrothgar?” 

Klimmek smiled. “I’ve been to the monastery many times, I often run supplies up the mountain. Are you planning a pilgrimage? You look the type.”   
Martin wanted to ask what that meant, but didn’t. He held his tongue, smiling. “Yes, actually. I am hoping to reach the monastery you mentioned. What can you tell me about the way?”

“The steps begin here, and it's a fairly simple path to follow. However it's not an easy trek to make, I’ll tell you. Watch out for wolves and mind your feet. Wintery conditions and wolf packs are all I have had to deal with thus far and that shouldn’t be too much for the likes of you, but you never know.” 

“Thank you for the warning. You mentioned a delivery, didn’t you? I would be more than happy to deliver it for you if that would be of assistance. I am on my way up anyway.”   
Klimmek bowed his head and thanked him. “That would be a great help, if you don’t mind the trouble. The first of the stairs are across the river. Watch your step.” 

The trader left Martin for a moment, retrieving a woven sack and returning as Caesitas met up with Martin at the river’s edge. He caught a glimpse of yellow in his eyes as the stranger handed Martin the dry goods; even though the sack wasn’t heavy Caesitas seemed far from keen on added tasks. 

“Keep your swords at the ready, and good luck. Gods be with you.” The Prince bristled, and Martin gave a wave. “Thank you, Sir!” 

“Worry not.” Martin said, turning to Caesitas and taking one of his hands.   
“Always going out of your way to make more work for yourself…”  
“I said I wouldn’t abandon these people to their fate, didn’t I? No matter how trivial…”  
“I do not believe this is the same thing…”   
“No, It is even lesser a task. I will not lose sleep over it my dear. Besides, I have a clearer idea of where to go next. Shall we?” 

Caesitas drew in a breath. “We can always turn back, you know.”   
Martin laughed softly.


	13. Dragonborn Ascending (The Seven Thousand Steps)

Snow swirled in the air as the two made their way up the frigid steps, their feet soundless on the cold stone as the wind whipped down the mountainside. Martin held his traveling cloak close to himself, keeping his head down to keep away the cold nip against his cheeks. Caesitas took notice of each shiver and did his best to keep him warm, casting domed arcs of orange warmth from his staff over them both. The flames acted more like water, swirling like whirlpools and leaving black scorch marks on the exposed ground. 

“I can get us a bit further up I think, though I…” There was uncertainty in his voice. “My vision is blocked past a certain point.”  
“A white-out from the snow?”  
“No, no. There’s a barrier of sorts. It's more than sight it's… knowing. I cannot know what lies further up the mountain.”  
“I see. We can try, still? If you think it is worth it.” Caesitas nodded. 

The pair grasped each other's hands, and Martin felt the now-comfortable sensation of butterfly wings over his cheeks and in his hair. There was brief warmth and his vision was a kaleidoscope swirl of purples and golds and bright frigid whites, and then the cold sank back in, worse than before.  
They were definitely farther up the mountain, perhaps a little more than half-way. Caesitas looked back at him wild-eyed, trying to figure out where they were. Slit-pupiled and silver-haired, he looked his age. 

The sky was darker too, as the clouds had thickened to look more like smoke than wisps of thin white. Martin held Caesita’s hand with one of his own and used the other to pull his cloak tighter around himself again. “It's like… like there’s a hole? Something is missing?” Caesitas said, his voice somehow louder than the wind.  
“What do you mean?” 

“I cannot slide across the surface, there are too many waves…”  
“My dear, I do not know what you mean by that, please explain?” Martin pressed again. 

“Something at the top of this mountain is disrupting the way things are supposed to be. I cannot tell what.”  
Martin nodded to communicate his marginal understanding. 

The two trudged on, sticking close together. Wolves were abundant, but there were nothing the pair couldn’t handle, as Caesitas transfigured many of them into rabbits or goats before they even made it into Martin’s vision.  
“That is cheating.” He joked.  
“What, you don’t like my neat little tricks?” the New Sheogorath laughed. 

They passed a few pilgrims camping out on the path as well, and Martin pitied them on some level before realizing they seemed at home in the cold wilderness. Hunters, he presumed, or whatever a “true nord” was. The thought made him roll his eyes. Regardless, the focus of their pilgrimage seemed to be a series of small grottos with stone tablets in each one, words carved sharply into the dark material. Martin was curious, but Caesitas seemed to give the path markers a good distance between them as they passed.  
“Do they bother you?”  
“No, they are simply stone. But, in truth… I do not care for the prophetic writings of people from the past. Prophecy only breaks hearts.”  
“It led my father to you...through his dreams…”  
“Perhaps.” But it had led Martin to oblivion. To the dragonfires...to the dragon…

Out of curiosity, once prophecy was mentioned, Martin did peek at one… to sate his desire to know, of course. 

“With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer;” Martin read aloud from a wayshrine that caught his eye, “Founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice; Whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World..” 

As the air got noticeably thinner and the snow thicker, the pair knew they were reaching the peak, or at least where they hoped their destination was. Martin wasn’t sure.  
The jagged mountainside narrowed and the Caesitas urged Martin to stop, as the passage forward was a perfect spot for a…

“By the divines, is that a troll!?” Martin watched the white silhouette on the cliff above them wave its arms and jump around. “I do believe it is…”  
The prince raised his hands, and both palms were alight with magicka and fire. Martin braced himself with the meager sword he carried. “If we are silent we may get past without issue.”  
While valiant, the idea was quickly shot down like a bird with an arrow under its wing. 

The creature roared and came running in a flurry of white toward them, and in return Caesitas unleashed a firestorm. Martin flanked two warring storms, and swung his sword at the charred fur of its legs. The beast spun in confusion, not knowing who to attack and where. Massive claws narrowly missed Martin’s head, a lock of his hair whipping across his snow-chapped cheeks. The flames were making quick work of the troll, but it still galloped forward refusing to give up or let them pass. 

Martin jumped back too slow, claws catching his arm as he nearly fell into a snowbank, and his body was alight with hot brilliant pain.  
Again he swung the sword, meeting the meat and fur of the troll’s torso.  
Scarlet was dribbling down his now exposed forearm. 

And with one final yell and push forward, the on-fire beast toppled over and was still as Martin pulled his sword from its meat and bone.  
He was a bit woozy, and for a moment he could only laugh at the idea of having his ass handed to him by a troll after he had killed a dragon in such recent memory. 

Caesitas’ hand was warm on his upper arm, and the warm glow drew Martin’s eyes to his slender fingers. A healing touch… “You alright?” He asked sternly. “Yes, It’s alright…”  
He offered wordlessly to let him assist moving forward by letting him lean on him, but Martin politely waved him off.  
“Come now, We are so close now. I can feel it.”  
It was a hum in the dragonborn’s dones, like the thrumming of drums and the roaring of voices. He wondered if it was his memory, pulling the recollection of the Greybeards summons from the clouds, or if it was new and active as they came closer to the great stone monastery…

High Hrothgar was far from the likes of Weynon Priory.

**Author's Note:**

> hopefully I didn't miss any typos, language is hard


End file.
